The book is an indelible title in the American library, a riveting re-creation of a multiple murder committed by Perry Smith and Dick Hickock in rural Kansas. What made it so fascinating wasn’t just Capote’s reporting, but the incredible relationship he forged with Smith, the killer.

The problem is, once one fabrication’s been uncovered, everything else is thrown into question too. And the quandary becomes: Do inaccuracies entirely negate the literary merit of the book? If we cease to consider it true, does it then become kindling?

It happened to James Frey, whose “Million Little Pieces” was exposed as an elaborate lie. (Which is too bad for Frey, because he’s a very good writer and maybe didn’t need to make so much stuff up.)

Veracity poses tricky questions for readers. The journalist in me says that if Capote got the facts wrong, or worse, made stuff up, then the story’s no good. But the reader in me is loath to completely give up a book as brilliantly constructed as “In Cold Blood.” Capote is just too important a writer to ignore, and the story, even if it is a tall tale, is too compelling to drop.

Perhaps a note from the publisher in forthcoming editions is in order. But as a lifelong student of literature – fiction and nonfiction – I’d hate to just cast “In Cold Blood” to the wind.